


The Love of a Child

by goaskjane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, Kid!John, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goaskjane/pseuds/goaskjane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I saw this pic and loved it so much that I decided to write a fic for it. And now it'll probably end up being much longer than originally anticipated. http://cinnamagen.tumblr.com/image/36278448909</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this pic and loved it so much that I decided to write a fic for it. And now it'll probably end up being much longer than originally anticipated. http://cinnamagen.tumblr.com/image/36278448909

Lestrade was holding a child. _Where did he get a child?_ Sherlock thought.

 _Male, six years old, blonde hair, blue eyes, left-handed, a scratch on his right cheek and an orange blanket wrapped around his small shoulders._ Lestrade shifted the boy against his hip as Sherlock approached cautiously.

“Lestrade,” he acknowledged, not making eye contact.

“Sherlock,” the detective inspector sounded incredibly relieved. “Thank God you’re here. Listen, it’s pretty bad in there, I’m going to need all I can get from you.”

Sherlock nodded, but was still observing the child. His face was pale in the blue light of the police cars and he shivered despite the blanket. But he didn’t seem very frightened. On the contrary, he seemed angry if anything. His little blonde eyebrows were knitted together and his eyes were darting about the scene as he said not a word.

Sergeant Donovan appeared and took the boy from Lestrade’s grasp and Sherlock followed him into the townhouse that had been taped off. The house was a wreck – nearly every surface had been cleared of knick knacks and everyday objects and all of the cabinets and drawers had been thrown open and ransacked. Sherlock and Lestrade stepped carefully through the mess and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom.

This was where a lesser man would have flinched, but Sherlock barely reacted. Two bodies, one male, one female, were lying akimbo in the bed in a great pool of their mingled blood, still in their night things. His body was covering hers, but it had done nothing to stop the bullet that landed in her skull, nor the one that had killed him. Sherlock took out his magnifier and started to examine the bodies more closely.

“What did they take?”

“Pardon?”

“The killers were clearly looking for something. When these two refused to give it up, they were shot, and the killers tore the house apart looking for it. Whatever it was.”

“We don’t know about any objects that are missing,” Lestrade said heavily. “But they’ve taken the daughter.”

“Daughter?”

“Her name is Harriet, she’s nine.”

“She must know something,” Sherlock mused. “Show me her room.” Lestrade did; it was in much the same state as the rest of the house, but there was no blood. She was likely still alive and the only remaining key to whatever information her kidnappers needed. If they had found it, they would have killed her, too. “What do they do?”

“Who?”

“The parents, Lestrade! What do they do?”

“He’s a surgeon, but she works for the government. Just a desk job, by the look of things.”

“A cover, obviously.” Sherlock straightened up and took out his mobile, quickly firing off a text to his brother. “I’ll have Mycroft look into it. Text me the details and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Sure,” Lestrade nodded as they headed back out to the street. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grunted in reply and was about to cross the street to leave before he spotted Donovan and the boy. She was knelt down and had a hand on his shoulder as she spoke in what she no doubt thought would be a comforting manner. The boy just looked annoyed.

“How does the boy come into play?” he asked Lestrade, still not looking away.

“He’s their son. Seems he had the wherewithal to hide in the dumbwaiter when he heard the shots.”

“Hmm. Clever.”

“It was, yeah. Poor little fella’. He’ll have to go to a group home before we can find a foster family for him. But we’ll have to keep him close – there’s no knowing what he knows. But he won’t talk to anyone.” Sherlock felt his cheek turn up in a rueful smile as he watched the boy screw up his face and glower at Donovan, clearly refusing to open his mouth and utter a single syllable.

“Let me take him,” Sherlock said.

“What?” Lestrade exclaimed. “ _You_? Take care of a _kid_?” He let out a sound somewhere between laughter and terror. “No – no way.”

“Why the hell not? He might prove useful to the case. And besides, I’ve got an extra bedroom. It would just be tedious to have to meet with him at the Yard every time I needed to ask him a question.”

“You’re serious?”

“Have you ever known me to joke?”

Lestrade made the sound again. “That’s… it’s not exactly _legal_ , Sherlock.”

“When have I ever cared? There must be a form or something for this sort of thing.”

“I… I suppose.”

“Good. Forge my signature.” With that, Sherlock walked away from Lestrade and approached Donavan and the boy, who looked up with him with a shielded gaze.

“Good evening.”

The boy said nothing.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

Again, nothing.

“I’m a detective. I’ll be taking care of you for the time being.”

“Wait a minute, freak,” Donovan said as she stood. “What kind of lunatic would give you custody of a child?”

“Your supervising officer,” Sherlock replied smartly. “Feel free to question him about it, but we are leaving now.” He turned back to the boy. “Do you want that blanket?”

He shook his head.

Sherlock nodded and whipped it from the boy’s shoulders and shoved it in Donovan’s general direction. She took it in quiet shock and Sherlock stretched out a hand. To his surprise, the boy took it and they crossed the street to hail a cab. They climbed inside and Sherlock gave the driver his address.

“What sort of name is Sherlock?” The boy’s voice was quiet but by no means weak or scared.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock demanded. “It’s _my_ name.”

“It’s weird.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yeah, it is, it’s weird.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“John Hamish Watson,” the boy said proudly.

“Well, that’s boring,” Sherlock said. “And redundant.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That it said the same thing twice.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, but Hamish is the Scottish equivalent of John, so it’s really as though your name is John John Watson.” There was the tiniest of silences.

“At least it’s not Sherlock.” Sherlock scowled at John until they reached 221B Baker Street and stepped out together.

“Sherlock, dear? Is that you?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice rang through the house and she soon appeared in the foyer. “I took those thumbs out of the microwave and moved them to – oh! Hello dearie!” she said when she spotted John. “Who are you, then?”

“John,” the boy replied calmly. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mrs. Hudson, dear. I’m Sherlock’s landlady.”

“John is going to be staying with me for the foreseeable future, Mrs. Hudson, in the spare bedroom.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson put a hand delicately to her mouth and had a rather questioning expression on her face. “Sherlock, what about his….”

“John’s parents have been the victims of a crime, Mrs. Hudson,” he said pointedly, for some reason not wanting to upset John by saying outright that his parents had been brutally murdered. “We’ll discuss it later.” Mrs. Hudson’s face fell a bit, but she smiled reassuringly at John.

“Well, we’ll be glad to have you about, John dear.” She reached down and politely shook his little hand. “Sherlock, the thumbs are in the breadbox. Good night, you two.” With that, she turned and went back into her flat.

“She seems nice,” John said as they ascended the stairs.

“Yes, she does.”

“Is she?”

“Is she what?”

“Nice.”

“Oh. I suppose by other peoples’ standard, yes.” Sherlock opened the door and threw his coat onto the sofa as he went to the kitchen to check the state of his thumb samples.

“Why do you have a bag of thumbs in your kitchen?” Sherlock was surprised to see John had followed him into the kitchen.

“I’m testing their decomposition rates in dry, room-temperature environments. The kitchen is best for this.”

“Oh.” Sherlock placed the thumbs back in the microwave and started when he heard John draw out one of the kitchen chairs.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m hungry,” John said. “Do you have anything to eat?”

“Uhm….” Sherlock opened the fridge – nothing edible. There were ramen noodles in one of the cabinets, but John rejected those. “What difference does it make?” he demanded.

“I’m allergic to those!” John insisted.

“Insufferable,” Sherlock muttered, returning to the cabinets. “Beans on toast?” John sighed heavily. “It’s that or the noodles.”

“Fine! Beans on toast.” Sherlock dropped the can onto the table in front of John. They stared at one another for a long moment. “Well?” John ventured.

“Go on, then.” Sherlock made a waving gesture at John as though to indicate that he could have his run of the kitchen.

“I can’t make it!”

“Why ever not?”

“I’m not allowed!”

“Not allo- I’m allowing you. Go ahead.”

“I don’t know how, stupid,” John said angrily. “Dad always makes my food!” As soon as he said it, John’s face began to crumple, but he pursed his lips to fight the tears and stared resolutely at the table. Sherlock’s breath caught as he saw tears begin to well up in John’s eyes despite his best efforts and he was startled by the way his heart seemed to constrict in his chest.

“Alright,” Sherlock said softly. “I’ll make it.” John drew in a huge sniff and dragged the back of his hand across this face, swiftly trying to remove all traces of tears; Sherlock pretended not to see as he put a pot on the range and emptied the can into it. “Would you… do you want to watch telly or… or something?” Damn it, why was Sherlock so nervous around this child?

John simply nodded and went into the sitting room without another word. Sherlock thought he heard him sniffling some more, but pretended not to notice when he brought a plate into the parlor a few minutes later along with a glass of orange juice. It was one of the only beverages that Sherlock kept in the flat and John seemed happy enough with it. He ate and drank healthily and laughed a little bit at some inane cartoon that was on the television. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked after a while.

“I don’t eat when I’m working.”

“You’re not working now.”

“I’m always working.”

“So you never eat?”

“It slows me down.”

“That’s not good for you,” John said smartly. “You’re supposed to eat three square meals a day – that means at least one vegetable at every meal – and drink lots of water and milk.” He was clearly parroting a lesson on nutrition – Sherlock found it a bit tedious, but let John carry on anyway. The boy seemed to be proud of his knowledge of how humans should operate in order to be healthy. Sherlock tuned him out and tried to think about the case and after a while, John curled up on the opposite end of the sofa to watch telly in quiet. He took Sherlock’s coat – a £600 coat – and wrapped it around himself like some sort of cocoon, his feet tucked up under his legs and the collar turned up so that only his eyes and forehead were visible. Sherlock observed him with unrestrained curiosity and before long, John’s eyes began to droop and he was clearly struggling to remain awake.

“Come along,” Sherlock finally said, standing from the sofa. “I’ll show you to your bedroom.”

John raised his arms sleepily above his head and let Sherlock’s coat fall onto the couch in a pool of expensive fabric. What was that for? John’s fingers twitched impatiently and it clicked – he wanted to be carried. Sherlock should refuse – set a precedent – make him walk up the stairs.

Instead, he stretched out his arms and lifted John into his grasp. The boy’s legs and arms wrapped around Sherlock’s torso and neck instantly, his head lolling against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock quelled the rising warmth in his chest and carried John up to the spare bedroom.

It was sparsely furnished, but the bed was made, and so Sherlock gently laid John on top before pulling the covers out from under his lax form. When John was sufficiently tucked in, Sherlock turned and made to leave. But something made him pause and look back at the already-sleeping boy; he would never openly admit as much, but he very well may have gotten himself in over his head.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sherlock?”

John’s soft voice brought Sherlock out of his reverie. “What?” John flinched a little and Sherlock sighed, trying to school his expression into something resembling warmth or concern. “What is it?”

“I had a nightmare.”

“Well, that’s perfectly natural,” Sherlock replied. He steepled his fingers again and made to resume his thinking. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

But John did not return to bed. Instead, he stood shifting anxiously in front of Sherlock, tugging at the hem of his shirt and chewing his lip. Sherlock tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

“Would you like to talk about it?” John nodded tentatively and went to sit beside Sherlock on the sofa. He grabbed up Sherlock’s coat again and clutched it to his chest like a blanket before taking a deep, shaky breath.

“I dreamed about the man who killed my Mum and Dad.”

Sherlock turned to John with his full attention; here were the details he needed from this boy without the awkwardness of having to bring it up himself. “Just one man?”

“No. There were two. The other one took my sister.”

“What did they look like?”

“I dunno. They had masks.” John chewed his thumb nail.

“Did you hear the shot?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded. “I was asleep and heard the bang and I woke up. I was scared but my Mum always made us practice what to do if someone came in the house, so I knew what to do. I snuck out of my room and climbed inside the dumbwaiter and waited quietly.” He took another deep breath and snuggled further down into Sherlock’s coat. “I heard them take my sister.”

“Did they hurt her?”

“No – I don’t think so. She yelled a lot at first, but then she was quiet.” They must have knocked her out somehow – likely chloroform as there was no blood. “I heard them say that she would know it.”

“Know what?”

John shrugged and looked again as though he were trying very hard not to cry. Luckily, a knock at the door distracted from their conversation and Lestrade entered without waiting for an invitation. “Morning, gents,” he said from over the top of a large cardboard box. “Sherlock, this envelope was on the table in the foyer.” He tipped the box forward and a manila envelope slipped forward and landed in the arm chair. “Hey there, John.”

John waved at him from under the shelter of Sherlock’s coat. “Hi, Officer Greg.”

“I’ve got some stuff I thought you might want.” Lestrade put the box on the floor and John went over to it with cautious curiosity. “Now, it’s mostly clothes, but there’s a toy or two in there.”

“Otis!” John exclaimed as he pulled an oversized, stuffed hedgehog from the box. His face lit up as he crushed the toy to his chest and buried his nose in the matted fur. “Thanks, Officer Greg!”

“Sure thing, mate.” Lestrade ruffled John’s hair as he approached Sherlock, who was now rifling through the contents of the envelope. It was from Mycroft and contained the details of Mrs. Watson’s cover and actual career as a software designer for MI-6. It appeared that she had been nearing the completion of a new method of intercepting digitally-communicated terrorist messages that would leave no traces of infiltration. But the software required a six-digit passcode, chosen by Mrs. Watson herself, before it could be so much as viewed, let alone edited.

She had likely give the code to her daughter in secret as a failsafe. When she refused to give it up and the husband clearly had no information, they were killed, and the daughter kidnapped. It was highly unlikely that the girl understood the full magnitude of those digits – if she was even aware that she knew them – but that did not lessen the danger she was in.

“Well?” Sherlock looked up and was surprised to find Lestrade still in the flat.

“Well what?”

“It’s from Mycroft, isn’t it? What’s it say?”

“Who’s Mycroft?” John asked as he pulled a plastic ambulance out of the box.

“My older brother,” answered Sherlock.

John giggled. “That’s a funny name, too.” Lestrade snorted with poorly-concealed laughter; Sherlock rolled his eyes at John and resumed his train of thought.

“A government worker, like you said; but the desk job was a cover, like I said. It appears that the killers are looking for a six-digit passcode to some software she was developing. They were undoubtedly paid by a terrorist cell.”

“How do you know _they_ weren’t the terrorists?”

“Too messy. The real terrorists would have taken the mother and likely tortured her for information. The killers, not amateurs but not seasoned terrorists, would undoubtedly find the task of cracking a nine year old girl far easier than a trained government employee. Besides, they were only being paid for the code, not the woman.”

“Well how long can it be before the girl gives it up? That’s a lot to handle, even for an adult.”

“She probably doesn’t know that she knows the code. Her mother would have slipped it into her unconscious mind, likely while she was sleeping, so that the information could be extracted safely without the girl’s awareness.”

“Harry.” They both turned to stare at John. “She’s called Harry,” he said rather forcefully. “Don’t just call her ‘the girl’ like that. She’s my big sister.” He squeezed Otis so hard about the neck with his scrawny little arms that, had he been animate, he would have lost the ability to breathe.

“You’re right, mate,” Lestrade said apologetically, kneeling down to look John in the eye. “Sorry.” He turned to look at Sherlock expectantly before Sherlock sighed and said,

“Yes. Apologies.”

“You’re going to find her, aren’t you?” John asked with eyes wide.

“Of course we are,” Sherlock said plainly. There was no doubt in his mind.

John seemed to take his words as more reassurance that Sherlock had meant, but he said nothing. John smiled again and returned to the box. He dragged a coverlet from within that was dark blue and covered in cartoonish planets and rocket ships. “Sherlock, will you help me put this on my new bed?”

Sherlock’s face wrinkled in confusion and distaste. “Why would you want that thing on your bed?”

“It’s my blanket. I like space.”

“Space is irrelevant.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That it’s not important.”

“Yes it is,” John insisted. “Earth is in space and we live on Earth so that makes it important.”

“That’s poor logic. There are lots of things in space that aren’t important.”

“The moon is in space and the sun is in space and there are lots of stars in space….”

“Alright, alright,” Sherlock said, waving his hand to stop John talking. “But what does it matter?”

“If the Earth didn’t go round the sun we wouldn’t have seasons. And if the moon didn’t go round the Earth the oceans would be all wonky,” John said simply. “So it’s important.”

“What are you talking about?”

Lestrade, trying very much not to laugh outright, said, “Sherlock, did you not know that the Earth goes round the sun?”

“So?”

John burst out laughing. “You’re really dumb sometimes,” he said.

“No I’m not!” Sherlock insisted.

“Sherlock’s a dumb-dumb!” John cried in a sing-song voice. “Sherlock’s a dumb-dumb!” As John trounced off toward the stairs dragging his blanket, Lestrade finally lost his battle against his impending laughter and snorted loudly. Sherlock glared the sharpest daggers at Lestrade, but he merely gained volume at the sight of him.

“I like him,” he chuckled.

“Yes, Lestrade, he’s very amusing. You may go now.”

Lestrade collected himself and said with a wave, “Alright, alright. I’ll be back at the Yard. Let me know as soon as you figure out anything, will you?” He left and Sherlock turned to watch John struggling to drag his coverlet up the stairs. He huffed and went over to him, swiftly grabbing up the blanket in one hand and scooping John up under his other arm. The boy exploded into a fit of high-pitched giggles as Sherlock toted him up to the spare bedroom in frustration.

In short order, they had John’s bed covered with his ridiculous comforter, all of his toys in an orderly pile, and were filling the lower dresser drawers with his clothes. John thought himself very good at folding, but Sherlock thought his method was very inefficient.

John was proving to be more of a distraction than Sherlock had anticipated; he insisted that Sherlock take him somewhere to eat breakfast now that the only food left was the ramen and he still refused to eat it. “It’ll make my throat close up!” he insisted; Sherlock merely huffed and took him downstairs to Speedy’s.

Before ordering anything, John said to the waiter, in a very clear tone, “I’m allergic to MSG.” Sherlock was taken aback by his seemingly-random statement, but the waiter smiled politely.

“That’s alright, son. We don’t use that stuff here.”

“Alright,” John said, satisfied. “I want an egg sandwich.”

“D’you want cheese on it?”

“Yes please!” The waiter nodded and went off to put in the order. Sherlock watched as John pulled both of his legs into his chair so that he could sit on his knees – for what reason, Sherlock could not discern. John reached across the table and took a few straws from the reserve and began unwrapping them and tearing the paper into tiny bits.

“Don’t do that.” Sherlock tried to take the straws away, but John drew them out of his reach and pouted.

“I’m bored.”

“You’re making a mess.”

“I don’t care.” John started ripping up the wrappers again, this time sitting far back in his chair so that Sherlock couldn’t stop him. What tedious behavior – he was obviously desperate for attention and a distraction from his (surprisingly) well-concealed fear for his sister. “You’re boring. Don’t you ever doing anything fun?”

For some reason, this struck Sherlock as… hurtful? Annoying? Rude? In reply, Sherlock grabbed a few straws and pushed their wrappers down to the table, scrunching them into tiny, tight accordion folds. John watched in feigned disinterest as Sherlock filled the end of one of the straws with water from his cup and carefully touched the wrapper with a drop of the liquid. Instantly, the paper began to expand, unfolding rapidly and curling upwards like a caterpillar. John gasped loudly at the sight.

“Wow!” He leaned forward on his knees and watched as Sherlock repeated the process again and again until the wrapper had completely unfurled. “How did you do that?”

“Science,” Sherlock said simply, strangely proud to have amused the boy.

“Show me!”

Sherlock did and John could hardly have been happier. After about a half-dozen wrapper-worms, the waiter returned to bring John his sandwich, which he ate with gusto. As John stuffed his face with egg and cheese sandwich dipped in ketchup, Sherlock’s mobile buzzed and he looked down to see a message from Lestrade.

_We’ve got a lead on the killers. Come by the Yard._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a short chapter and it took me a long while to post it, but - you know - life.

When they entered the Yard, John was almost immediately engulfed in a flood of female officers, all fawning over his “cute little smile”, “and those eyes!” How interesting. Sherlock would happily have left the boy in the company of the other officers for a few minutes, but John took his hand and refused to leave his side. No matter how hard Sherlock tried to hint that he would like a moment alone with Lestrade.

“Their names are William Nesbit and Tyler Croft.” Lestrade passed Sherlock a folder that contained the mug shots of the two men who had killed Mr. and Mrs. Watson. “We spotted them on a CCTV feed at a Tesco in Piccadilly, but there was a bit of a delay in the feedback, so they’ve gotten away for the time. We’re setting up a squad now, to try and track them down, but they paid with cash so it’s going to be a bit more difficult than tracing a card. The – Harry,” he glanced down at John as he said her name, “wasn’t with them.”

“I’ll find them,” Sherlock said, snapping the folder shut and passing it back to Lestrade. “Give me until tomorrow night and I’ll….”

“No, Sherlock, you won’t,” Lestrade said pointedly. He glanced meaningfully down at John, who was fascinated by an empty imitation-crystal ashtray on Lestrade’s desk.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson can….”

“No she can’t. It’s bad enough me letting _you_ take him, but you can’t involve Mrs. Hudson in this. You have a huge responsibility now and you can’t just go running off, chasing criminals and kidnappers, at any moment.”

“I don’t suppose you think your men will be able to find them any quicker than I would?” Sherlock retorted.

“No, I don’t, but I think _they’re_ going to find them and _you’re_ going to stay put and take care of John.” The boy looked up at the mention of his name and peered curiously between the two men. Sherlock turned his gaze upon John and gave a little sigh, resigned to what others might deem a “quiet life” – at least until the case was solved.

“Fine!” Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s hand and they turned to leave.

“Bye, Officer Greg!” John waved happily over his shoulder, skipping after Sherlock. They went outside and Sherlock hailed a cab. John clambered in ahead of Sherlock, who had to wrestle the boy into sitting on his rear end so that he could buckle his safety belt.

“Here,” Sherlock said, thrusting Lestrade’s ashtray at John. The boy’s face split in a huge grin as he took it from Sherlock.

“Where did you get this?”

“I nicked it off Lestrade’s desk when no one was looking. I steal from him when he’s annoying.” John giggled at that and smiled down at the ashtray in his hand. “Besides, he doesn’t use it. He quit smoking three months ago. For the most part.”

“Now he won’t be able to,” John rationalized.

“Yes. We’ve done him a favor, really.” Sherlock couldn’t help but smile just a little.

 ----

There was a great, loud _thumping_ coming from the front room and Sherlock furrowed his brow. He set down his notes and swept into the sitting room to see John jumping up and down the stairs, his arms out at his sides for balance.

“What could you _possibly_ be doing?” Sherlock hissed.

“Trying to make it up the stairs without my knees coming apart.”

There was a pause while Sherlock absorbed this information. “To what end?”

“It’s a game Harry and me used to play.”

“Harry and _I_.”

“You’ve never met her,” said John incredulously. Sherlock swallowed his retort, which took a great amount of personal control.

“Well, it seems rather inane,” he replied.

“What’s that mean?”

“Stupid.”

“No it’s not!” John insisted. “It’s fun! Harry and me used to call out numbers and we’d have to jump to that step. Like this: three!” He hopped down to the third step from the bottom. “Six!” Up to the sixth. “Four!” Down by two.

“Yes, yes, I think I grasp the concept,” Sherlock said.

“Play with me!”

“No,” Sherlock said definitively.

“Please?” John whined. Sherlock could feel his face begin to twitch with annoyance.

“I do not play games.”

“ _Please_?” John’s eyes grew impossibly large and he looked on the verge of tears. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock resigned himself to the child’s powers of manipulation and approached the stairs. John’s face immediately changed from sad to ecstatic, and it occurred to Sherlock that he may have been faking.

“Shall I call numbers, or shall you?”

“You!” John rushed down to the foot of the stairs and waited eagerly for Sherlock to begin the game.

Sherlock started saying numbers, “Four. Six. Two. Five.” And so on. Nearly every time he provided John with a number, he seemed surprised, as though he was trying to anticipate what Sherlock would say next. His face lit up each time he made it to the assigned stair and he would giggle whenever he stumbled. Finally, he turned to Sherlock and declared, “My turn!”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I don’t enjoy jumping.”

“C’mon! It’s part of the game!” John returned to the foot of the stairs and gave Sherlock a little push. Sherlock practically growled with distaste, but gave a curt, consenting nod. John exclaimed with excitement and Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth lift in a small smile against his better judgment. “Harry had a pattern she always used when we would play.”

“A pattern?”

“Yep! Two!” John hopped up to the second step and then turned to look expectantly at Sherlock, who shrugged unknowingly. Widening his eyes impatiently, John gave Sherlock a wave, beckoning him onto the second step. With a beleaguered sigh, Sherlock hopped up to meet John, who smiled broadly. “Five!” Up they went. “Three! One! Seven! Nine!” John huffed, nearly exhausted, as they came to a standstill.

“That’s hardly a pattern,” Sherlock said, catching his breath. “A pattern requires some form of repetition….”

“It is _too_ a pattern! She did it the same way every time and that makes it a pattern – I learned it in school!” Again, John gave Sherlock that look which suggested that he thought the detective to be a complete prat.

“Well, I suppose if it were the same over the course of several games, then it would, indeed be a pattern,” he conceded. “But on its own the sequence bears no significance,” he added. “Why did she always do those numbers?”

“She said it helped her remember.”

“Remember what?”

John shrugged. “I dunno. She said it felt important that she remember, and that’s how she did it.”

“That seems rather odd – why on earth would she have reason to remember those six…. Oh!” Suddenly, Sherlock’s mind was lit with inspiration. The passcode! She had learned it in her sleep and it was seeping into her conscious mind, and had inadvertently taught it to John!

He had known there would be some benefit to having the boy so near.

Sherlock rushed down the stairs, ignoring John’s questioning calls, and grabbed up his mobile from the kitchen table. He fired off a text to Lestrade. _Know the code. – SH._


	4. Chapter Four

“Lestrade! We are wasting time with this nonsense! The kidnappers want the code – we have the code – we get Harry back!”

“It’s not that simple, Sherlock!” Lestrade insisted, slamming a hand down on the small space on Sherlock’s kitchen table that was not covered with papers and experiments. “And we’ve not been wasting time! I’ve got a team looking for the killers, but in the meantime, we’ve been trying to track down the only living relative. We finally found her, thank God.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that!” Sherlock shouted. “We can change the code before we give it to them – I’ll call Mycroft, give him the access he needs, then he can extract all of the important information before changing he access code. We’ll give the old code to the killers and they’ll let the girl go.”

“What happens when the code doesn’t work, Sherlock? They come after her again?”

“No, you insufferable idiot! We arrest them during the handoff!”

“Here’s the problem, Sherlock – _we_ _don’t know where they are_! We couldn’t give them an _ice lolly_ if we wanted to – let alone a fake passcode!” Lestrade shouted.

Sherlock gripped his hands at the roots of his hair and made a frustrated shout. “Get out! I can bear your ignorance no longer!” He thrust his hand toward the door, insisting that the detective inspector leave at once. Lestrade gathered his coat in a huff and made for the door, but Sherlock spoke again. “You said you found a relative?”

“Their aunt – Mrs. Watson’s sister Helen. She’s been on holiday in Peru, but we managed to track her down. She’s on her way back to England now – should be here by day after tomorrow at the latest.” Sherlock nodded and Lestrade left.

Sherlock turned and took a deep, calming breath; his eyes landed on John, who was sitting on the stairs, crouched behind the rail, watching Sherlock’s exchange with Lestrade with wide, concerned eyes. Sherlock hardly knew what to say – John looked for once very frightened and sad and it made Sherlock’s chest clench. “Are you hungry?” he finally asked. John gave a small nod and Sherlock approached the stairs, grabbing John’s coat from the hook along the way. They both donned their jackets, John still standing on the stair. Sherlock reached out his arms and John climbed into his embrace, wrapping his little legs about Sherlock’s thin waist and burying his head in his coat collar.

 

\--- 

 

On their way back from the McDonald’s on the other side of Marylebone Road, Sherlock held John’s hand as he licked away contentedly at an ice cream cone. At the Baker Street tube station, they paused in front of a pair of homeless men. “Wotcher, ‘guv,” the fatter of the two said to Sherlock with a short nod of his head. The thin one grabbed up an old and beaten guitar from a case on the sidewalk and said to Sherlock, “Any requests?”

“Just one.” Sherlock dropped a small envelope into the guitar case and kept walking and no more was said between them.

“What did you give them?” John asked.

“The photos of the men who took your sister,” Sherlock said. “And fifty quid.”

“Why?”

“They’re going to find the kidnappers and let me know where they’re keeping Harry.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand at that.

Back at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, unloading groceries into the cabinets and refrigerator. “Oh, hello boys,” she said cheerfully. “I was at the market and thought I’d pick up some things for John to eat – Sherlock, I know you don’t do much eating, but John really should, you know.”

“I’m allergic to MSG,” John piped up.

“Yes, dear,” she replied kindly, “I know. I made sure everything was without.” John smiled contentedly at her before going into the sitting room.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said softly, patting her swiftly on the shoulder with gratitude.

“Just this once dear – I’m not your housekeeper.” She gave him a firm look before slipping out into the corridor and down the stairs to her own flat. Sherlock grabbed up his notes on the case and settled onto the couch next to John while the boy wrapped all four of his limbs about Otis and watched some children’s movie that Sherlock didn’t recognize.

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket and quickly dialed Mycroft’s number. “ _Little brother_ ,” Mycroft answered condescendingly.

“Mycroft. I have Mrs. Watson’s passcode – I need you to extract all of the proper information and put it in a new file before I offer the digits as payment for Harry.”

“ _Who is Harry_?”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise in his throat – why was Mycroft always so obtuse? “John’s sister – the one they kidnapped to try and extract the code. But she doesn’t know she knows it.”

“ _Why not just give them a false code from the start_?”

“Because,” John cleared his throat conspicuously and gave Sherlock a pointed look, gesturing towards the telly. Sherlock stood and went into the kitchen, leaving John in peace. “Because they may well have a digital connection to their backer, who will undoubtedly check the code remotely and reveal our plot when the code does not work.”

“ _So you need me to fill the original file with false information_.”

“Preferably information which appears useful, yes.” Sherlock peeked around the kitchen door to check on John, who was giggling madly at the television. “How long will it take?”

 _“Not very long with the code. Perhaps thirty minutes_.”

“Excellent. The code is 2-5-3-1-7-9. Text me when it’s done.” Sherlock hung up the phone and went to join John on the sofa.

They remained that way for half-an-hour before there was a knock at the door to the flat. Sherlock stood swiftly, abandoning his notes on the side table. When he opened the door, the two homeless men from before were standing in the corridor. “Anything?”

“Everything, mate,” said the thinner one. The two men came into the flat without being asked and dropped onto the sofa. John slipped off of the couch and into the softer of Sherlock’s two arm chairs, watching them warily all the while. The text message tone of Sherlock’s mobile sounded and when he checked the message, it was one word from Mycroft: _Done._ Sherlock settled himself into his black armchair and steepled his fingers as he looked at the two men on his couch.

“They’ve got ‘er in a warehouse,” said the fat one.

“In Soho.”

“On Frith Street.”

“Next to an Italian restaurant.”

“’Ere’s the address.” The man passed a folded sheet of paper to Sherlock, who read and immediately memorized the address. They both stood from the couch, straightening their ragged garments like gentlemen with jackets, and made for the door.

“Appreciate the business, Mister ‘Olmes,” said the thin one, making a sort of saluting gesture toward Sherlock before the two men left the flat.

Sherlock leapt to his feet and clapped his hands together, excitement flooding over him. John jumped at his outburst and widened his eyes as Sherlock exclaimed, “Excellent! John – I’m off to collect your sister! I’ll be back before the morning.”

“Can I come with you?” John begged.

“No,” Sherlock replied forcefully. “No, you cannot. You will stay with Mrs. Hudson – it’s far too dangerous.”

“But I want to come with you!” John insisted, sliding out of the armchair and staring Sherlock down. “I want to see Harry – I want to help you!”

“John,” Sherlock knelt down and put his hands on John’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “This is too dangerous and I don’t want anything to happen to you. You can trust me – I will bring your sister back.” John nodded reluctantly and grabbed up Otis before stomping toward the stairs with a scowl on his face. Sherlock sighed before grabbing up his coat and scarf, then opening his desk drawer and removing a pistol he’d taken from the Yard several months ago. He went downstairs and knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“Sherlock, dear,” she said with surprise. “What is it?”

“I need you to look after John for a little while, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “I’m off to find his parents’ killers.”

“Oh my.” Mrs. Hudson’s hand flew to her mouth with surprise, but she nodded all the same. “Of course, dear. Will you be late?”

“Yes. Make sure he goes to bed at a reasonable hour, will you?” Mrs. Hudson nodded and headed up to 221B as Sherlock rushed out into the street.


	5. Chapter Five

The warehouse was hardly difficult to find, but it _was_ difficult for Sherlock to make his way there inconspicuously; at this hour, the streets were full of people in various states of inebriation, wandering out of clubs and restaurants, falling over one another drawing all sorts of unwanted attention to anyone who passed. But Sherlock managed to slip into the tiny alley between Little Italy restaurant and the empty building next door without being noticed. He looked around quickly and spotted an empty wine bottle on the ground. Stepping around the corner and checking that no one was looking, Sherlock threw the bottle against the front door of the warehouse. It shattered with a mighty _crash_ as Sherlock darted back into the alley. A man, Croft, Sherlock thought, came to the door and poked his head out momentarily before finally taking off in the opposite direction, looking for the source of the sound. _Idiot_.

At the back of the building, there were several dark windows. Sherlock chose one and swiftly jabbed his elbow into the bottom-right corner, his coat protecting him. There was a light tinkling as the glass landed on the hard floor inside, but after a brief pause filled with nothing but ambient street sounds, Sherlock reached inside the window and awkwardly undid the latch from within. He drew open the window and hauled himself inside.

Sherlock dropped silently onto the floor and withdrew his gun from his trousers. He carried it slightly raised as he snuck through the warehouse, all dark corridors and hollow sounds. Finally, Sherlock spotted a flickering light from around a corner – a fire, no doubt – and he approached silently.

Nesbit was in the large room, sitting next to a barrel fire and a young girl who could only be Harry. Her short mousy hair was mussed and dirty and her scratched hands were tied behind her back. “Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please, let me go. I won’t tell anybody about you – I promise.”

“Quiet!” Nesbit replied harshly.

Harry started to cry. “ _Please_. I don’t know anything, I swear!”

“I said _shut up_!” Nesbit stood and rushed toward Harry, his hand raised to strike.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Sherlock said calmly, stepping around the corner and aiming his gun at Nesbit. Nesbit immediately went for his own gun, which was foolishly lying on the ground, but Sherlock cocked his pistol and Nesbit stilled. “Hands up.” Nesbit complied. “Step away from the girl.” He did and Sherlock stepped forward slowly to untie Harry’s wrists.

“It’s alright now, Harry. I’m a detective – I’m here to take you home.”

“ _Sherlock_!” The detective felt a chill grip deep in his chest at the sound of his name ringing out through the warehouse. He turned swiftly and saw John struggling with Croft, who had one arm wrapped around his shoulders and a gun resting against John’s temple. “Sherlock, I…”

“Shut up!” The man’s grip shifted until his forearm was pressed against John’s throat, preventing him from crying out again. “Gun down, Mister Holmes.”

But Sherlock did not lower his gun. “Where did you find him?” he demanded through tight lips and clenched teeth. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anythin’ – idiot boy was runnin’ up and down the street, callin’ your name. ‘Sherlock! _Sherlock!_ ’” He raised the pitch of his voice at the end, mocking John and Sherlock felt his anger rising. “I’m not an idiot – I put two and two together.”

“How impressive for you,” Sherlock spat.

“I wouldn’t poke fun if I was you, Holmes.” Croft cocked the pistol in his hand, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. “Gun down, if you please.”

It took an effort to keep his voice calm, but when Sherlock spoke, his tone was level. “I have the code.”

Croft narrowed his eyes at this and said, “How did you find it?”

“Does it matter? I know it. And I will give it to you gladly if you release the children.” Croft was silent, obviously struggling to think through his options. “Give it to your backer, if you like. Call them now and have them try it.”

Croft seemed to think this was an excellent idea, for he nodded to Nesbit, who slowly removed his mobile from his pocket and dialed out. “Yeah, boss? We’ve got the code.” He glanced at Sherlock, who recited the numbers and Nesbit repeated it to the unknown person on the other end of the line. There was a pregnant pause while the code was tested. Finally, Nesbit ended the call and nodded at Croft.

“Good work, Mister Holmes. I ‘eard you was good. But I reckon you’ll understand why I don’t want no loose ends layin’ about.” He pressed the end of his pistol harder into John’s temple and said again, “Put your gun down. Now.”

Sherlock hesitated – what had John been thinking, coming after him like that? If Sherlock gave up his weapon, there was still no guarantee that this man wouldn’t shoot John anyway. John’s blue eyes widened in what Sherlock thought was fear. But then he shook his head ever so slightly, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

As he raised his hands slowly above his head, letting his gun hang from one finger, Sherlock heard Nesbit leave Harry and approach him from behind. He felt a hand take hold of his right wrist, taking the gun, and bending Sherlock’s arm behind him. He kept his gaze on Croft and saw him finally, _finally_ relax his posture, and Sherlock took his opportunity.

In the second that it took for him to jam his elbow backward into Nesbit’s abdomen before turning swiftly on his heel and cracking the man’s jaw with a strong left hook, a gunshot rang out and both children screamed. Sherlock snatched the gun from Nesbit’s hand as he reeled back onto the floor, cocked the hammer, turned around, and pulled the trigger all in one swift movement.

Croft hit the floor with a dull thud, dead with a shot through the head. Harry was crying as she shuffled desperately away from Nesbit’s prone form, but Sherlock was focused on John, who was screaming and sobbing like Sherlock had never heard. He flew to John’s side and dropped to his knees.

There was a gaping hole in John’s left shoulder where Croft had shot him and he was rapidly losing blood. Sherlock whipped off his scarf and carefully but quickly wrapped it around John’s shoulder, tying it as tightly as he could manage to stay the flow of blood. It wouldn’t last long, but it might help him make it to the hospital.

“Oh my God!” Harry cried out when she caught sight of John. Her eyes grew wide and she looked on the verge of passing out, but Sherlock took her by the arm and said forcefully, “Harry! Focus! Dial 999, right now.” He thrust his mobile into her hand, but she just shook her head in fear and confusion.

“I… I can’t….”

“Harry, do it!” She snapped to and dialed 999 with shaking fingers and began talking through her sobs to the emergency operator. Sherlock pressed his fingers to John’s neck and felt his pulse, strong, but fading quickly. He began to panic and lifted John into his lap, holding him tight against his body, trying not to shake. John’s fingers reached out and grasped weakly at the front of Sherlock’s coat and John let out a little sigh, relaxing into Sherlock’s grasp.

It seemed at once a second and an eternity before the ambulance finally arrived and Sherlock lifted John’s now-limp body onto a gurney.


	6. Chapter Six

Sherlock was pacing. Sherlock had been pacing for five hours and twenty-seven minutes. It was exactly thirty-seven paces from one end of the corridor to the other and had been exactly four-hundred-twenty minutes since Sherlock had first thought that he’d like to have a cigarette.

Lestrade had been with the unit that responded to Harry’s 999 call and had been nearing irate when he saw John’s state; he immediately shut up and let Sherlock go with the ambulance.

“Sherlock!” He turned to see Mrs. Hudson rushing down the corridor, still in her housecoat, Otis crushed under one arm. Her face was streaked with tears and her hands shook as she came to a halt before him. “Sherlock – I can’t believe I…. I didn’t mean to…. I’d only just….”

“I know, Mrs. Hudson, calm down,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his frustration to a minimum.

“I-I had just taken my-my evening herbal soother when y-you asked me to keep an eye on-on….” Sobs overtook her and there was a long pause before she could speak again. “I must have f-fallen asleep on the so-sofa…. I thought he was a-asleep when I went to check on hi-him….”

Sherlock stopped her talking when he took her in his arms, giving her a brief but firm hug, Otis crammed uncomfortably between them. She finally calmed and after a moment, Sherlock said, “Thank you for bringing Otis.”

“I knew J-John would want him when he – when he woke up.” Sherlock handed Mrs. Hudson a handkerchief he kept in his left breast pocket and she wiped her eyes gratefully.

“Mister Holmes?” Sherlock whipped around to see a small black woman in a nurse’s uniform waiting for him at the door to the ward where they were keeping John. He swept toward her and she said, “It looks like he’s going to be alright.”

Sherlock’s head began to swim with relief and the nurse continued. “He lost a lot of blood – we’re in the middle of a transfusion now – but he’d lost consciousness by the time he arrived. There’s always the chance that he may retain some brain damage. At the very least – he’ll have a very long recovery period for his shoulder.” Sherlock nodded, not sure what to say, and ran his hands anxiously over his face.

“May I see him?” he finally asked.

“Not just yet – we haven’t quite stitched him up entirely. It may be another hour yet.” Sherlock nodded and the nurse turned to go back to the forbidden room where they were keeping John from him, but Sherlock stopped her.

“Wait!” He grabbed Otis from Mrs. Hudson’s grasp and thrust him at the nurse, who took him with confusion. “Make sure he has this when he wakes up.”

The nurse looked at Otis with slight disdain. “It’s not exactly sterile, Mister Holmes.”

A cloud of fury billowed up in Sherlock’s chest and he spat at the nurse, “You listen to me, you petty functionary – if that little boy does not have his arms wrapped around that dirty stuffed hedgehog when he wakes up – and believe me, I will know – I will make it my mission to make your life a complete and utter Hell. Is that understood?”

The nurse flinched at the flash in Sherlock’s eyes. She nodded fearfully and left, Otis firm in her grasp. He sighed with relief and resumed his pacing.

“Mister Holmes?” A sound that was very similar to a growl escaped Sherlock’s throat as he turned to see who was disturbing his thoughts now. It was a thin, blonde woman with a drawn and angry face, stalking towards him with her coat stirring around her. _Early thirties, natural blonde, boarding pass in left pocket – LIM to LHR – just in from Lima, Peru. John’s Aunt Helen_.

“Miss Watson,” Sherlock acknowledged. As he opened his mouth to speak some more, he was cut off by a sharp slap to the face that actually sent him reeling, it was so unexpected.

“Who in _God’s_ name do you think you are?” she screeched.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock demanded incredulously. He removed his hand from his now flaming cheek and gave Miss Watson his most threatening glower. She did not back down.

“My nephew – _a six year old boy_ – was _shot_ while in your care! If you go near John again – if I so much as _see_ _you_ in this hospital while he is still committed – I will start looking into why he was ever placed in your care to begin with, and _not_ in the hands of the state! Do I make myself clear?”

Sherlock was at a complete loss. No one – not even Mrs. Hudson – had ever spoken to him in such a manner. He was offended and taken aback and more than a little impressed. But mostly, he was very, very upset. He knew that she had every right to be angry with him and that he would have no right to ever see John again. Not ever.

“Mister Holmes?” It was the nurse again. He turned, but Miss Watson cut him off.

“I’m John Watson’s aunt – I’m his legal guardian. How is he?”

The nurse looked between Sherlock and Miss Holmes with a frightened expression, but seemed to settle on the aunt. “He’s awake. You can see him now.” She held open the door for Miss Watson, who started forward immediately.

“Wait!” Sherlock called out, almost desperately. Miss Watson turned, her expression cold. “Can I… may I see him – very briefly,” he qualified. “Just… just to say goodbye.” He didn’t have to school his expression into something pathetic – he could feel it happening without effort.

“Be quick about it.” She stepped aside, apparently having decided to wait outside while Sherlock spoke with John. He glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who nodded encouragingly and waited in the lobby as Sherlock stepped into the corridor with the nurse. John’s room was nearly at the end of the corridor and the pale green curtains across the windows were drawn; Sherlock had no idea what to expect. There had been an awful lot of blood.

John was laying down in his bed, but his blue eyes were open, albeit clouded with painkillers. He was smiling dreamily at another nurse as she checked his morphine drip. “I’m allergic to M… MSG,” he slurred at her. She smiled kindly and said,

“I’ll be sure to keep it away from you.”

“You’re quite pretty,” John continued.

“Sorry, dear, I’m engaged.”

“Well you… you let me know if you…. Aren’t.” John’s little hand wandered around nebulously in his drugged state, trying to point at her. She chuckled and patted his good shoulder before turning to leave. She spotted Sherlock and smiled sympathetically.

“He’s coherent enough, but clearly a little woozy.” Sherlock nodded sedately and she left.

“Sherlock!” John smiled lopsidedly and tried to reach out to him, but his arms proved too heavy and wound up flopping back onto the covers. “Hey!” Sherlock’s face twitched in a semblance of a smile, still too distraught to pretend complete happiness.

“Hello, John. How are you feeling?”

“Great!” John said. “The nurse said this tube makes the pain go away but _I don’t feel any pain_.” He whispered this last conspiratorially and Sherlock did chuckle briefly at that.

“Well that’s good to hear.” There was a pause, during which time John seemed to rediscover his fingers and Sherlock watched him with a mixture of amusement and absolute sadness. “John….”

“Sherlock… look at this!” He wiggled his fingers in front of his face.

“It’s very impressive,” Sherlock replied calmly, “but I have something to tell you.”

“Okay.” John nodded and licked his lips, then did it again as they appeared to have acquired an interesting taste and he practically crossed his eyes trying to spy his tongue.

“John, focus on me.” He sat beside the bed and took a gentle hold of John’s good hand. John’s drugged gaze finally landed on Sherlock and his expression became serious.

“What is it?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked John in the eye. “This is goodbye, John.” There was a bit of a pause while John took this in.

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned his head away and made as if to sleep, but Sherlock squeezed his hand, drawing his attention back.

“No, John. I won’t be able to see you anymore. Your Aunt Helen is here and she’s going to take care of you from now on.”

“But… but I don’t like Aunt Helen,” John answered slowly. “Her house smells like cabbages.”

“I’m very sorry, John,” Sherlock said. “But she says we can’t be friends anymore. I have to go.”

“But you’ll come back, right? Don’t make me stay with her!” He sounded as though he was on the verge of a panic.

“It’s the law, John. I can’t come back. You have to go with your Aunt Helen.”

“But you don’t care about the law!” He had a point. But it really would be in John’s best interest, Sherlock knew. He would not be safe in Sherlock’s care – Sherlock was barely safe in Sherlock’s care – and he really ought to live with his relatives. That was the only logical conclusion.

Why did that not make Sherlock feel any better?

“I’m so sorry, John,” he said genuinely. “I wish things were different.” John’s chin began to quiver and tears started rolling down his cheeks.

“I don’t want you to go!” he cried. “Don’t you want me?”

His words cut straight to Sherlock’s heart and his voice caught in his throat. Before he could answer, John’s heart rate accelerated to a noticeable pace with his sobs and his heart monitor started beeping loudly. The pretty blonde nurse with whom John had been flirting came rushing back into the room to try and calm him down. As his dosage was increased, John’s eyes began to droop despite his wracking sobs. His hand reached for Sherlock as he stood to make room for the nurse and clenched pathetically on empty air. Sherlock gathered his strength in the form of a deep breath through his nose and turned to leave, knowing that if he so much as glanced back at John, he would come apart.

Sherlock stalked swiftly back down the corridor, barely glancing at Mrs. Hudson, who still gathered her things and rushed after him. They left the hospital, Sherlock feeling very empty and small.


	7. Chapter Seven

Lestrade came by the flat the next day to collect John’s things and take them to Helen Watson; Sherlock had not been able to make himself gather everything together, and so Lestrade was in his flat much longer than was pleasant.

“You brought this on yourself, you know,” Lestrade said patronizingly as he hefted the box of John’s things onto the kitchen table so that he could close it properly.

“I did no such thing, Lestrade.” Sherlock was standing by the window, his violin in hand – he had been composing.

“Yes you did. You wanted him with you and then you left him alone while you went chasing killers….”

“I didn’t leave him alone – I left him with Mrs. Hudson.”

“No offense to Mrs. Hudson, but she’s not a very good babysitter even with you and you’re an adult,” Lestrade quipped. Sherlock finally turned in a huff of anger to stare him down. “Never mind a scared, desperate, and clever kid.”

“You have no idea what you are talking about, Lestrade.”

“And _you_ have no idea how out of your depth you were. Honestly, Sherlock, thinking you could take care of a kid….”

“I took perfectly good care of him!”

“He got _shot_ , you madman!”

“Aside from that!”

“Alright – aside from that – what size shoe does he wear?”

“What?” Sherlock was taken completely aback.

“Or shirt – what size are his shirts?”

“Oh, how should I know? Child-sized?”

“Where does he go to school?”

“I….”

“What’s the name of his pediatrician?”

“Now look here….”

“Does he have any allergies?”

“Yes! He’s allergic to MSG!”

Lestrade’s expression became very condescending and almost sympathetic. “Good for you, Sherlock. You know one thing about a child who was in your care for nearly a week. The one thing he managed to tell everyone who came near him.”

“I know plenty about him, Lestrade! I know he hates his Aunt Helen and doesn’t want to live with her.”

“You think he should stay with you? Forever?”

“If that’s what he wants.”

“It’s not up to him, Sherlock. And it’s not up to you, either. It’s up to the law. And the law – and common sense – knows that his Aunt Helen would be much better for him than you.” Lestrade grabbed up the box of John’s things – his space blanket, his child-sized clothes, his aluminium ambulance – and made for the door. “I _am_ sorry, Sherlock. I know how much you cared for him.” He gave Sherlock a sympathetic look before leaving. Sherlock slung his violin back onto his shoulder and began drawing the bow across the strings with no rhyme or reason.

 

\--- 

 

As per Ms. Watson’s demand, Sherlock had not attempted to make contact with John since his emotional departure nearly two months ago. _What a strange notion_ he thought _that I should consider myself emotional because of John_. Compassion, according to Siger and Violet Holmes, was a defect found only in the losing side. But Sherlock found himself unbearably and uncontrollably concerned with John’s well-being. How was his rehabilitation going? Had he been released from the hospital yet? Where exactly did this Helen Watson live and would she relocate to keep John and Harry in their same school? Sherlock understood that people sometimes did this to prevent “disruption” in the lives of children, but he could not see how one’s location could bear any influence on one’s ability to learn.

Mycroft would, of course, have the answers to all of these questions, but that would require Sherlock to make contact with him and he did so loathe speaking with his brother. And there would be no disguising his inquiries as anything but a show of weakness. But there was really nothing else for it; Lestrade was off the case, Molly worked with dead people, not patients, and Sherlock had successfully angered nearly every person working in John’s ward in the few short hours that he had been there. There was no one who could help but Mycroft.

The thought actually left a bad taste in Sherlock’s mouth, but he swallowed it down with a grimace and retrieved his mobile from the mantle. “Mycroft,” he said shortly.

“Little brother.”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that.”

“Then I think you understand why I continue to do so.”

Sherlock literally bit back his retort. “I need you to look into something.”

“Might I venture a guess as to what?” Mycroft’s smirk was evident in his tone.

“No, you may not,” Sherlock cut him off at the knees. “Look into John’s welfare for me, would you?” He made his voice as nonplussed as was possible, even going so far as actually studying his fingernails, hoping that by convincing his body of his disinterest, he might also convince Mycroft.

It did not work.

“Concerned, are we?”

“Mycroft….”

“You know what Mummy and Father always said about concerning yourself with the affairs of others.”

“Yes, I do, and….”

“Frankly, I’ve always thought you may have taken that a bit too seriously.”

There was a pause, during which Sherlock felt the beginnings of a genuine smile. But he quickly tempered it, lest it should make its way into his voice, before saying, “I’d just like to know how his recuperation is progressing.”

“Not where he’s living?”

“I’ve been instructed not to make any further contact,” he replied bitterly.

“Yes, well, I know how you are about _instructions_.” Mycroft sighed, a sigh that was colored with thirty-five years of disobedience on the part of a younger brother. “I’ll email you everything I can find by the end of business.”

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

“Yes.” Then he hung up and Sherlock allowed his smile to form completely.

 

\--- 

 

From: [m.holmes@sis.uk.gov](mailto:m.holmes@sis.uk.gov)

To: [s.holmes@science_of_deduction.co.uk](mailto:s.holmes@science_of_deduction.co.uk)

Sherlock,

It would appear that John’s recovery went better than his doctors expected; one of them told me that he was, ‘a tough little bloke’, if that is any sort of comfort to you. He is attending regular physical therapy sessions and seems to be progressing well, although it appears as though his shoulder will give him some measure of trouble for the remainder of his life. He should, however, regain most, if not all, of his mobility and his physical therapist is optimistic that the most from which he will ever suffer is arthritis.

Miss Watson currently lives in West Croydon in the vicinity of Southsea Court. He attends Kingsley Primary School for the first half of every day. According to one of the administrators, students begin attending full-time after their sixth week and only if they appear to have adapted fully to the environment. John has been attending for three weeks, but this particular administrator reports that he has been having trouble adjusting and it may take more than the usual six weeks for him to start attending classes in the afternoons.

Alternatively, Harriet Watson seems to have adjusted perfectly well to her new surroundings, taking to her aunt’s home and her new school with apparent relief. John, however, appears to have become somewhat depressed, refusing to speak to his teachers and not eating very regularly.

I hope you find this information useful. Do not do anything rash.

Mycroft Holmes

 

\---

 

Sherlock pressed his palms together under his chin as he let this information sink in. John was not doing well. John was not doing well because of Sherlock. John was not doing well because of Sherlock, and there was nothing he could do to make him feel better. He took up his violin and continued working on the melody he had started developing after John’s untimely exit from his life.

There was an insistent buzzing from the front door and Sherlock waited for Mrs. Hudson to answer it. But answer it she did not and his frustration grew as the buzzer interrupted him just as he was about to draw his bow across the strings of his violin. Ah – Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister this weekend – just had a surgery or something. Who knew? At any rate, she would not be answering the door and if Sherlock wanted the buzzing to stop he would have to see who it was for himself.

He stalked down the stairs and threw open the door and caught his breath in surprise.

“Sherlock!”

“John?” He was being hugged round the waist by a pair of scrawny wool-wrapped arms so tightly and so suddenly that he thought he might actually fall over. “ _John_. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t want to stay with Aunt Helen anymore,” John whimpered against Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders, careful not to squeeze too hard, and pulled him away so that he could look down into his face.

John’s left arm was in a sling, but it wasn’t drawn very tightly – just limiting his movement then, not keeping his shoulder in place. And he was wearing a cream-coloured jumper over a royal blue polo shirt and khaki trousers – school uniform, undoubtedly. Over his right shoulder was draped a messenger bag with a school crest on it, Otis’s little stuffed leg poking out from under the flap. Something warmed in Sherlock’s chest at the sight.

“John, how did you get here?”

“I skivved off school – pretended like I was going to the shuttle, but I got a cab instead,” he replied proudly as Sherlock knelt in front of him.

“How did you pay for it?”

“Well….” John bit his lip and looked back out the door at that. Sherlock followed his gaze to see a black cab in the street, the driver standing by the door, waiting impatiently. No doubt the meter was still running. Sherlock smirked – that was exactly what he would have done, and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket as he left John standing in the foyer. He extracted Mycroft’s credit card and handed it over.


End file.
